


losing my balance on the tightrope

by folkinround



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: High School AU, Lots of OCs - Freeform, M/M, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-08
Updated: 2014-04-08
Packaged: 2018-01-18 14:14:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1431505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/folkinround/pseuds/folkinround
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>for the loveliest RP-partner on the planet <3</p>
<p>William Slane is her creation, as well as the red-paint in the art room idea. I'm sorry in advance, because this probably won't make any sense for anyone but her.</p>
    </blockquote>





	losing my balance on the tightrope

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Holmes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Holmes/gifts).



> for the loveliest RP-partner on the planet <3
> 
> William Slane is her creation, as well as the red-paint in the art room idea. I'm sorry in advance, because this probably won't make any sense for anyone but her.

Will sees him every day.

 

It’s not even on purpose anymore; he knows Jim’s schedule by heart, can recite it straight and backwards, and he walks to their strategic “ _meeting places_ ” without even thinking. He puts imaginary quotation marks around _meeting places_ and smiles to himself as he sits on the cafeteria with his lunch (he doesn’t usually have lunch there, but on Wednesdays, Jim hangs around the cafeteria with Sebastian). Will sits a few tables away from them, but he ends up facing Jim’s back and Sebastian’s face (they switched today). He doesn’t like facing Sebastian, the way the boy looks at him, so he spends most of his lunchtime staring down at his sandwich.

 

 

 

They meet again in the library on Wednesday afternoons. Will tutors a group of freshmen and Jim usually sits in the corner of the library, face buried in a book. There’s usually no Sebastian around during those afternoons, or anyone else with Jim, so Will can watch him a little more freely. He sneaks a glance whenever he can, though always careful not to get caught.

 

“Hey, Slane,” someone calls him and Will jumps a little. _Almost_ , he thinks, and shakes his head lightly as he turns to look towards the caller. American accent, light hair and bright eyes. It’s the foreign kid, Jesse something.

 

“Yes?” Will asks, navigating the chairs and moving closer to Jesse.

 

“I’m having trouble with this question,” the boy says, and he does sound a bit defensive about it. Like he’s got something to prove. Will doesn’t like that sort, they just make it all the more tiresome because they can’t admit they need help.

 

He sits next to Jesse to have a better look and Jim slips away from his mind for a moment. Jesse (Ford’s his last name, Will notices as he glances at the school ID card on the table) gives him a bit of a peculiar look, as if he’s not really paying any attention to what Will’s saying, but trying to read _him_ instead, but Will chooses not to comment on it and goes on explaining what the question means.

 

By the time he finishes with his group, Jim’s already gone.

 

 

 

On Thursday morning, they have History together.

 

As usual, Will walks into the empty classroom and sits on his usual chair. Middle row, next to the wall. The other students sit either at the front or the very back, but Will likes the middle, likes being next to the wall too, feels _safer_ there, somehow. He hasn’t been bullied since his freshman year, but school still makes him uneasy.

 

Jim doesn’t usually come in until the bell rings, but today he still hasn’t come as the professor starts. It’s fifteen minutes into class when there’s a knock on the door and the professor stops. Jim comes in looking a bit _ragged_ , with shadows under his eyes and an unfriendly face (though the latter isn’t a rare sight).

 

That’s not what’s odd, though. What’s really odd is the fact that he seems to be walking towards Will, eyes on him. The redheaded boy feels his heart beating wildly inside his chest, can’t help but _stare_ back at Jim as he internally panics. _What is happening_ , he thinks. _Why is he looking so directly at me?_

 

He stares until Jim is just a step away from him, but then he walks right past Will and slides into the chair behind his. The only one that’s currently vacated.

 

Will feels his face flushing, the back of his neck prickling. He closes his eyes for a moment and he can _see_ Jim sitting down, taking his notebook and his pen out of his backpack, not even looking at him again (or worse, giving him a disgusted look for having _stared_ at him like a freak as he came into the classroom).

 

He doesn’t notice he’s making a funny face until the professor stops the lecture again and stares straight at him.

 

“William Slane,” she calls. “Is everything alright?”

 

There’s a frown on her face and Will snaps back into reality, his face flushing a deeper shade of red. He only has enough in him to collect his things hastily and stand.

 

“I’m sorry Miss Rivers,” he says as he makes his way to the door. “I’m not feeling very well.” And he exits the room before anyone else can say anything.

 

 

 

He doesn’t go to the infirmary at first, just walks down the corridor, into the bathroom, and sits on a stall in the toilet, head between his hands. He feels nauseous and tired, almost wants to call his mum at work and go back home.

 

Something like this hasn’t happened in _forever_ , and still Will thinks like it’s way too soon for it to be back.

 

The bathroom door opens and Will pulls his legs up, crossing them indian style over the toilet lid. He doesn’t want to be bothered, doesn’t want anyone to report him, so he stays very still and hopes it’s just some other student.

 

He hears two pairs of feet walk in and then the door clicks shut. On the other side, he hears Jesse Ford speak.

 

“I’m just telling you, Dem,” he says to the other boy. “He asked me to check this Slane guy out, and then I sneaked into the group he tutors and turns out he’s quite alright, you know.”

 

There’s the sound of the tap turning and then water running down the sink. Someone splashes their face.

 

“I’m just saying I want no part in it, Jess,” the other boy says.

 

“No part in _what_ , Dem?” Jesse asks, and he sounds just a tad defensive again. Maybe it’s just his way, Will thinks.

 

He licks his lips and doesn’t let his mind wander away, though, focusing on the conversation instead.

 

Dmitri doesn’t say anything and Will itches to watch them, to see their facial expressions. He doesn’t move, though, lest he make himself known.

 

“I just went to check if he was alright,” Jesse repeats, and this time it sounds as if he’s almost _disappointed_ with something. “I didn’t _do_ anything. Seb didn’t even ask me to. I was just supposed to see if he wasn’t, I don’t know, an _asshole_ or something.”

 

There’s the sound of someone pulling some paper towels out, but still Dmitri doesn’t say anything. Will can’t hold himself back anymore, he stands on the toilet lid, holds onto the door and looks over it at the two boys.

 

Jesse looks as disappointed as he sounds, and the other boy just looks away, seeming thoughtful. Will doesn’t quite understand them, and neither does he understand why _he_ has anything to do with this conversation, but he also doesn’t have much time to dwell on this because Dmitri looks up then and their eyes meet. It’s brief, but he’s been seen and is just about to embarrass himself _again_ in less than fifteen minutes.

 

Dmitri turns around and looks away, though, doesn’t let Jesse know he’s seen someone.

 

“Let’s go back, Jess,” he says, and the american just nods and lets Dmitri push him gently out of the bathroom.

 

Will steps down on the floor, walks to the sink and washes his face, not understanding what just happened, but glad that he didn’t get to embarrass himself again anyway.

 

 

 

He manages to avoid social interaction as much as possible for the rest of the day. He has another class with Jim, Advanced English, but he sits on the first desk, right next to the teacher, and pays attention to the board all through the class. He’s gone for lunch the minute the bell rings, then buries himself in the emptiest corner of the library he can find.

 

By the time he leaves, the corridors are mostly empty. He makes his way to his locker, puts on his code and makes it to put his books away for tomorrow, but stops midway as he finds something _odd_ inside.

 

Everything’s just the way he left, but there’s something new inside. He takes it and examines the papers. History homework, he identifies. There’s also a folded note, written in small, neat handwritting.

 

Jim’s.

 

It says _it’s supposed to be handed in next week, with oral presentation_. Teacher’s instructions. Will feels a little twinge of disappointment, but what _could_ he expect, really? A personal message? A phone number?

 

He shakes his head. There’s no signature, but he knows it’s Jim’s, there’s no doubt about it.

 

Will slips the folded note into his back pocket and puts his books away, takes what he needs to take home and locks his locker again. He doesn’t even wonder how Jim might’ve broken into his locker (it’s a very good job, he can only tell that it’s been violated because there was something new inside it), but it doesn’t really matter. He doesn’t think Jim wants to do any harm to him or his things.

 

Once he gets home, he clips the message together with the papers and puts it on his desk, on top of his books. He doesn’t mention any of the day’s events to his parents during dinner, but eats quiet and quickly, excuses himself saying that he’s got a lot of homework to do and locks himself into his room.

 

He spends a few hours doing homework, but then he takes out his journal and spends the next hour doodling and sketching bits of poems on it. He doesn’t write about the day, knowing it’ll only make him think about it more and grow distressed again.

 

He only manages to fall asleep at around two in the morning and he wakes at six with a start, his alarm going off and his mum pounding on the door.

 

Fifteen minutes later, he walks downstairs, dressed and ready for school. There’s tea in the counter for him and he has a quiet breakfast with his mum and dad, the news on TV behind him.

 

 

 

Will has gym on Friday mornings, and it’s the only class that bothers him. It bothers him enough to make him want to skip it, even, so he usually spends his first period in the library (when it’s full enough for him to be able to slip quietly into his favourite place and not be noticed by anyone that might report him), out near the dumpsters (where he has to avoid the smokers and the sneaky lovers), or on the roof, outside the physics lab.

 

He chooses the roof today, which is much quieter, goes up with the students that have physics on the first period and sneaks out the side door until anyone can notice it.

 

_Almost_ anyone this morning, though. Before entering the classroom, Jim Moriarty stops and watches Will sneaking out.

 

Will doesn’t notice it; he closes the door gently behind him and walks to the far edge of the roof, where he can sit down and watch the sky, the street below. He pulls his sketchbook and a pencil out and dedicates about fifteen minutes to sketching his surroundings. He’s so absorbed in it that he almost doesn’t hear the side door opening and someone else stepping out into the roof.

 

“Oi, Slane,” the person calls, and what scares Will is not even the fact that there’s someone there, it’s the fact that it’s _Sebastian Moran_ that’s alone with him on a roof. Will stands and looks back to face him with a nervous expression. “You thinking about jumping?” Sebastian teases (and he does mean it to be a friendly remark, but Will’s far too nervous to notice).

 

“What are _you_ doing here?” Will asks, and if his voice shakes a little, he feels like it’s perfectly justifiable by the situation.

 

Sebastian rolls his eyes.

 

“I came to prevent you from doing something stupid,” he says, but if it’s a joke, Will doesn’t think it’s at all funny. Sebastian lets out an annoyed sigh and steps a little closer to him. “I have a message for you,” he says. “ _And_ you’re making it very difficult to deliver by hiding _here_.” He makes a wide gesture with a massive hand and Will shivers a little, stepping away from the edge of the roof slowly.

 

“What is it, then?” Will asks, but Sebastian shakes his head.

 

“Jesus Christ, kid, calm _down_ ,” he says, frowning. “I’m not going to fucking _attack_ you, yeah?”

 

It’s _not_ a reassuring tone, Will thinks, but he takes a deep breath anyway and tries to calm himself down. Of course Sebastian isn’t going to push him off the roof of the school building. That’d be very impractical.

 

He keeps _staring_ at Will, though, and it makes Will very uncomfortable. He almost flinches under Sebastian’s examining gaze.

 

“What is this message, then?” he asks again, not wanting to sound rude, but coming off as a little impatient anyway. Eager to be alone again.

 

“Easy,” Sebastian shakes his head a little. “I’m not going to give it to you until I see what’s with you,” he says, eyes serious. “This is a warning: I’m watching you.”

 

He keeps his eyes on Will, bright and examining, doubtful, as he walks away slowly. Will follows him with his eyes until Sebastian turns around and leaves, then slumps back down to the floor, back against the wall and heart pounding in his ears.

 

 

 

He becomes ten times more aware of Sebastian Moran, then.

 

The boy chooses a seat that has him purposefully turned in Will’s direction at lunch, and Will feels his ears burning as he eats. He hasn’t been _properly_ bullied in years, but it’s not a feeling one can quite forget soon, and Sebastian’s words keep repeating themselves on his mind, his eyes keep staring at Will wherever he goes. It’s taunting and uncomfortable, and Will’s more than glad when the bell rings and he can escape it for the weekend. He feels like two full days to dedicate to homework and a bit of self-indulgence (a movie, a book, sketching) is what he needs to put his mind at peace.

 

He goes to bed early on Friday night, puts on Pride and Prejudice and falls asleep halfway through it. On Saturday, he helps his mum around a little in the morning, runs to the store with his dad in the afternoon, and spends the rest of the day doing homework. He finishes his history essay, puts together a bit of a presentation, and finishes all his math exercises as well. He falls asleep to a book instead of a movie, and wakes early on Sunday to an uncharacteriscally _cheerful_ day.

 

He has a lazy breakfast after sleeping in, then rides his bike to the park, chooses a tree to sit under and spends the rest of the morning as well as a bit of his afternoon too sketching people and scenery.

 

By the time he goes to bed that night, he feels light and happy. He reads himself to sleep again and sleeps a quiet, dreamless sleep.

 

 

 

There’s an anxiety that starts bubbling up on his stomach the minutes he steps into the school building on Monday, though. It’s justifiable enough, he thinks, because as soon as he walks to his locker, there he is: Sebastian Moran standing just a few lockers away. He turns and looks as Will approaches, and Will feels his stomach twist.

 

It’s not only him, though, Jim’s standing right next to him, locking up his things. He gives Will a look too, though not quite as _wary_ as Sebastian’s. It’s not a look Will can read, though, specially not right there while he’s nervous about being watched by those two.

 

Sebastian eventually looks away, but Jim holds his gaze for a moment longer, licks his lips, and then looks away. Will isn’t quite sure what he was conveying with his own eyes, but as soon as Jim’s beautiful, mysterious dark eyes are gone elsewhere, he wishes they were back on him.

 

 

 

He has no such luck, though. At lunch, he sits at his usual table and eats his sandwich quietly; he really doesn’t notice Sebastian until he slides into the seat across from him.

 

Will’s heart jumps to his throat.

 

“Oh, calm the fuck down, lad, I’m _not_ going to _do_ anything to you, yeah?” the boy warns, and he sounds oddly, dangerously _tired_. As if he doesn’t want to be there, doing that. “Put that bloody sandwich down if you’re not going to bite it,” he says after a moment, and only then does Will realise he’d frozen on the spot, sandwich halfway up to his mouth.

 

He puts the remainings of his food down and licks his lips, staring at Sebastian. His heart is still beating fast, but he does calm down a little.

 

“And try to _not_ look like you’re going to piss your pants too, yeah? He’s going to think I’m responsible for it too,” he says, rolling his eyes. That kind of does the trick, though, Will doesn’t know if it’s on purpose or not (probably not, he thinks), but that’s enough to make him more intrigued than scared.

 

He quirks one eyebrow at Sebastian, tilting his head a little to the side. “What?” he asks.

 

“That’s better,” Sebastian laughs a little, but doesn’t look contented to be there with Will.

 

It’s Will’s turn to roll his eyes, and he looks away from Sebastian for a moment, running a hand through his hair. “What do you want, then?” he asks. “What are you here for, I mean.” And there’s no accusation in his tone, this time, just mild curiosity. “You clearly don’t like me.”

 

“Well,” Sebastian says, shrugging. “At least you’re smart. I’ll give you that.” Will purses his lips, but the boy continues until he can speak again. “It’s not about _me_ , I told you,” he says and shrugs again. “Or you.” He licks his lips and runs a massive hand through his blond hair. “I’m just here to say that you don’t need to look quite so _alarmed_ ,” he says. “No one’s going to touch you here. Myself included. You’re under protection.”

 

Will’s lip curls into a frown then, creases forming on his forehead to accompany it.

 

Again, Sebastian speaks before Will has a chance too, though. “Think about it, yeah?” he says, standing and leaning in, eyes on Will, finger touching his own forehead. “And fucking _relax_ , kid.”

 

His voice is smooth and even, _casual_ , and before Will can even formulate anything to say, Sebastian’s gone.

 

 

 

Will thinks it’s a joke.

 

That’s all it could be, really. He thinks about it all afternoon, then stays awake for long past his bedtime, doodling idly and thinking.

 

It’s a joke, that’s all it could be, and if he’s not careful, the outcome might be really bad for him.

 

He goes to bed feeling a bit miserable and wakes not much better. When he gets to school and opens his locker, he finds it’s been broken into again. There’s still no sign of the break in, except for something new inside, with the clear purpose of letting him know someone else had access to it. This time it’s just a small post-it note stuck to the spine of his history textbook.

 

It has only a phone number on it, no name or anything else. The handwriting’s much more difficult to identify without a letter; Will examines it, brushes his finger across the paper and bites his lip. He takes the thing out and folds it gently, slipping it into his pocket along with his phone. He’ll think about it later, he decides. Maybe tonight, if he lies awake in bed again.

 

 

 

The next night, Will has nightmares.

 

The last time he was bullied was in middle school, when kids still made fun of him for having red hair. He’d gotten back at them by setting a trap on the art class, dropping red paint on their heads as they stepped in. That’d earned him a week of detention, but the taste of revenge had been sweet on his mouth for much longer.

 

He dreams of that, but the memory stops halfway and turns into a new thing. He stands in his old art classroom, but instead of the other kids it’s him with paint all over him. Sebastian stands among the crowd, and right beside him is Jim.

 

Will wakes with his heart ramming against his ribcage, his forehead and the back of his neck covered in sweat.

 

He sits in bed for a few minutes, regaining his breath, goes to the bathroom to wash his face, then unsuccessfully tries to fall back asleep. At around 2:30 am, he gives up and gets up again, going downstairs to make himself a cup of tea.

 

At 3:15, he still hasn’t managed to fall back asleep. At 3:27, he decides to text the mysterious phone number.

 

He takes the post-it note from the base of his lamp on his nightstand and types the number on his keypad, then selects the text option and stares at the blank screen for a moment.

 

_Hi_ , he sends, because it’s all he can think about right now, and he’s not really expecting an answer. Specially not at this time in the night, so it’s a surprise when, a minute later, his phone buzzes with a reply.

 

_I was wondering if you were going to text._

 

Will stares at it and licks his lips, curiosity burning inside him, making his fingers itch to reply.

 

_If you didn’t want me to, you wouldn’t have given me your number._

 

Again, his phone buzzes a minute later with a reply.

 

_Well, aren’t you a clever thing._

 

_Who is this?_ Will can’t keep himself from asking, even if he doesn’t think the other person is going to let him know so soon.

 

This time, the reply takes a bit longer to come, and when it does, it’s disappointing.

 

_Wrong question, fire boy_ , it says, and Will feels a weight dropping on his stomach, lips curling downwards.

 

He sets his phone back on the nighstand and turns off the lamp, stares at the ceiling until he manages to fall asleep.

 

 

 

He thinks about it all through the next day, fidgets all through Math and barely even notices Sebastian Moran’s eyes on him. He feels tired and itchy, forehead prickling and eyes tired, with deep circles underneath them.

 

The history presentations come next and Will has a hard time trying to remain awake enough through them. He’s left for Thursday and is glad for that too, so he doesn’t make a fool of himself in front of the class today.

 

He goes home after lunch and takes a long, dreamless nap. When he wakes, the sun’s just setting and he feels rested enough to continue with his activities.

 

He rehearses his history presentation, tweaking things a bit until his mum calls him for dinner, then he showers and goes back to his room, glad that he’d finished all of his homework on the weekend.

 

He settles in bed even though it’s early, turns the telly on just for a bit of background noise, turns off his lights and takes his phone.

 

He thinks for a long time before he actually sends another message to the mysterious number, fingers itching and stomach even twisting a little in anticipation.

 

_What is the right one, then?_

 

The reply takes a bit longer this time. It says, _guess_ , and the single word makes Will feel frustrated. After a few minutes, another message follows, _you’re smart, you can figure the answer out for yourself._

 

_No hints?_

 

There’s no delay, then.

 

_In exchange for what?_

 

Will’s stomach twists again, but he hardly hesitates before answering.

 

_Name your price._

 

It’s a bit torturous, having a conversation like this. Will doesn’t know what to expect; doesn’t know how to read the tone of the replies he gets and grows anxious and frustrated that he can’t see or hear the person.

 

The answer comes after a minute again.

 

_Ask your question. I’ll tell you when your time’s up._

 

Lots of questions come to his mind, then, but when he stops to think about them, he knows it’s the kind that’s going to earn an answer like _wrong question_ and cause his companion to give up. He knows he has to try better to succeed, there.

 

He thinks about a lot of other things; his weird dreams, Sebastian’s words to him on the different occasions he came looking for him, Jim’s note on his locker, the break-ins. He sits up a little and types the first question, _are you the one who’s protecting me?_

 

Will’s heart races as he waits, and continues to beat rapidly against his ribcage as he receives the reply.

 

_Indirectly, yes._

 

And then another, a second later, _next question._

 

_Did you break into my locker?_ Will asks before he can help himself, even if he thinks this is a risky question.

 

The reply comes, though, and it’s not disappointing this time.

 

_No, but I had someone else do it._

 

Will sighs, running a hand through his red locks. _That someone else scares me a bit._

 

_I know he does, told him to stop._

 

Will’s a bit taken aback at that, frowning at his phone and sitting up as he replies. _To his defense, I don’t think he actually does it on purpose._

 

He gets no reply after that, and his lip curls into a light pout. He lies down in bed with his phone on his chest for a long moment, staring at his bedroom ceiling. He feels at a loss for words, which is very unusual to him; doesn’t feel like anything he comes up with will be good enough. A long time passes and Will’s almost falling asleep when his phone buzzes again, this time with a short, unrelated message.

 

_Goodnight, fire boy_ , it says, but Will can’t even find the right words to say goodnight back.

 

 

 

Wednesday goes without anything new. Will stays behind after study group helping one of the giggly girls, then goes home, eats his dinner and does homework until he decides to go to bed.

 

Nobody texts him.

 

 

 

The next day, in History, Jim’s eyes don’t leave Will as he makes his presentation. They’re dark and piercing, mysterious. Will can’t quite make them out, what Jim _means_ when he stares at Will like that.

 

He spends the rest of the class sketching Jim’s eyes on the back of his notebook, so focused that he doesn’t really notice that Jim stays behind after the bell rings announcing the end of the period. Will stands and starts to get his things, but it’s only when Jim clears his throat that he notices him.

 

It’s a soft, polite sound, but still Will looks up with surprised eyes.

 

“Hi,” Jim says, and Will’s face flushes a little.

 

“Hi,” he says, running a hand through his red hair. He feels like he should say something else, but can’t quite tell _what_ exactly.

 

“ _Hi_ ,” Jim repeats, laughing gently. “I’m Jim.”

 

Will frowns a little at that. “I know,” he says, and then shakes his head and laughs a little, too. “Will.”

 

“I know,” Jim says, the smile fading a little as he licks his lips. He just _stares_ at Will for a moment then, watching him, but he speaks again before it can get too uncomfortable. “Would you rather do this by text?”

 

Will quirks one eyebrow at that question. He didn’t think Jim would be so clear and _open_ about it. “Well, are you the one asking questions now?”

 

“Well, if I _may_ ,” Jim shrugs. “You still owe me for the other night,” he points out.

 

Will shrugs too. “I told you, name your price.”

 

“Lunch,” Jim says easily, the corners of his lips twitching up just slightly. “Not here. Somewhere else.”

 

Will has a free period on Thursday afternoon, there’s nothing to keep him from going. He doesn’t even hesitate. “Fine,” he says, nodding once. “You pick the place.”

 

 

 

Jim, it turns out, has an ability of making Will speechless.

 

Will’s not _shy_. He is quiet, yes, but he always has lots of words to say, and they usually come up pretty easily when he wants to.

 

Not today, though.

 

He sits with Jim at the back of a café; he’s actually never been to that one before, not very fond of small places because it makes it harder to watch and sketch people like he does when he’s out, but it’s a very nice place. Cozy, warm and with a delicious smell of mint and coffee and tea. They order sandwiches, Jim orders coffee and Will orders tea, and then they sit in silence as the waiter turns and leaves their table.

 

Will looks around, curiously watching the people that are there, and he feels Jim’s eyes on him. When he looks back, Jim doesn’t look away, just blinks and continues to stare at Will, eyes dark and huge and unreadable. It’s not accusatory or menacing, like the looks he sometimes gives other people at school, but something about it still makes Will uncomfortable, makes his stomach flip in anxiousness.

 

He doesn’t seem bothered with Will’s silence, though. The corners of his lips twitch slightly upwards after a while, and he quirks one eyebrow at him. “Is this a _contest_?” he asks.

 

Will finally looks away, then, cheeks flushing a little.

 

“No,” he says, shaking his head. In an attempt to busy himself with something, he takes his bag and opens the zip, fumbles through it until he finds his sketchbook, then pulls it out and places it on the table. He then takes his pencil pouch and selects a pencil. Jim looks on, eyes curious.

 

Will goes for a very quick sketch, just the outlines of Jim’s face, not paying much attention to his nose and mouth, but focusing and spending the longest bit on his eyes. This one turns out much better than the one he did in class earlier, but it’s a different look, one a bit easier to understand. When he finishes, he licks his lips and holds it out for Jim to see.

 

Jim looks down at it for a long moment, the corners of his lips twitching up again, eyes softening a bit.

 

“Well,” he says, looking back at Will with a smirk. “Isn’t that _wooing_.”

 

Will smiles, pleased, but shakes his head. “That’s not what I’m trying to do,” he says.

 

Jim’s look changes then, his eyes assuming a completely different meaning, and he looks down. “Shame,” he breaths, but before Will can process it, the waiter comes back with their orders and sets it all on the table.

 

 

 

Will feels a bit _off_ when he comes back home that afternoon; after they eat, he walks with Jim until they have to take different routes and part. They don’t kiss. Not that Will was _expecting_ that, for the course of their lunch, but it’s something he can’t help thinking about, especially now that Jim actually shows that he’s paying a bit of attention to him.

 

He lies in his bed with his sketchbook, works a bit more on his sketch of Jim - the one he actually showed him - and busies himself with it until he feels tired enough to go to bed.

 

His phone goes off with a new text just as he’s turning off his bedside lamp, and the words keep playing in his head until he finally drifts off into sleep.

 

_Your time’s running out, fire boy._

 

 

 

He arrives earlier than the usual at school the next day and slips the sketch into Jim’s locker. It’s far from _stylish_ like Jim’s break-ins were, but it doesn’t bother him. He only wants to give Jim the sketch, and so he does just that.

 

He then goes up to the lab buildings and sneaks off the physics lab back door. It’s a bit chilly outside today, so Will pulls his hood up and hugs his own body, watching the sky for a long moment. He doesn’t sketch today, deciding to pick up a book and do some reading for class, since he’s skipping again.

 

Again, he’s so focused on what he’s doing that he doesn’t notice the door opening and the footsteps approaching.

 

A moment later, Jim sits down next to Will.

 

“You didn’t strike me as the type that skips class,” Jim says, and Will shrugs as he closes his book, putting it away on top of his bag.

 

“It’s only gym,” he explains. “I’m not really fond of sports.”

 

Jim is sitting a bit too close to be casual, but Will’s not bothered with the proximity. The other boy hums as Will speaks, looking down at his own lap as he unfolds a piece of paper. It’s Will’s sketch of him.

 

“I like it way better like this,” he says, tracing the outlines of his face with a gentle finger, careful not to press too hard to mark the paper or smudge the shadows. Will feels his heart warming a little, seeing Jim treat his work like that.

 

“There’s something about your eyes that’s very difficult to portrait,” Will admits. “I had a bit trouble with it, though not as much as I’ve had on other times.”

 

Jim looks up slowly, dark eyes staring curiously at Will. “Are there more?” he asks.

 

Will’s cheeks flush and he licks his lips, nodding. “A few,” he admits again.

 

Jim folds the paper carefully and slips it back into his bag. He licks his lips too, watching Will with those unnervingly _mysterious_ eyes of his. “I’d like to see them too, some time,” he says. “If you’d let me.”

 

Will chuckles, shaking his head.

 

“They’re not half as good as that,” he warns.

 

“I don’t care,” Jim says, eyes not leaving Will. “I want to see them all.”

 

Will stares back for a long moment, licking his lips again, feeling Jim’s eyes drawing him in. His face flushes as he notices he hasn’t looked away, and he does before he nods again.

 

“I’ll let you,” he breathes, and doesn’t have the nerve to look up again and see it Jim’s smiling or not. The other boy doesn’t move, though, just scoots a bit closer after a minute.

 

He’s wearing only a thin sweater, so Will reassures himself that it’s more out of instinct than anything that he slides his arm across Jim’s shoulders slowly, pulling him a bit closer.

 

Jim still doesn’t move away, then, but leans against Will a bit. They sit like that for a long time, sharing warmth and silence, Will’s heart beating wildly inside his chest.

 

 

 

They leave the school together again that afternoon; Will sits in the library and does homework while he waits for Jim to finish up, then they walk together for a moment, Will pushing his bike alongside him. Jim looks a bit more at ease than he did that morning, but he’s still very quiet and has a somewhat mysterious look on his face.

 

“You didn’t strike me as being so _quiet_ ,” Will says after a moment, his eyes still on the other boy, watching him as they walk.

 

They arrive at another café and Jim chooses a table in the back. It’s a small, cozy place with big windows that let in the light. Will smiles at the place Jim picks, scanning the surroundings quickly for something to sketch.

 

“What _did_ I strike you as?” Jim asks as they sit down across from each other.

 

Will smiles a little, licking his lips and shrugging once.

 

“I can try to flatter you,” he admits, laughing lightly, then shakes his head. “But I don’t think you want that, do you?”

 

Jim smiles too, running a hand through his hair. “I want to get to know you,” he says, eyes on Will, seeming to draw him in and want to read him. “Whatever it takes,” he adds with a shrug.

 

Will laughs a little, his face flushing. “You make it sound like it’s so difficult,” he says. He can’t keep his eyes away from Jim and he smiles wider when Jim doesn’t look away, holding his gaze. Will tilts his head a bit to the side. “First thing you should know is that I like lattes, and I take them with two sugars,” he says playfully.

 

“I’ll trade coffee for another drawing,” Jim replies quickly, but Will doesn’t hesitate.

 

“Deal,” he says. “A new one, though. Not one that I already have.”

 

Jim tilts his head a little to the side, trying to hide a small smile as much as he can, though Will still sees the corners of his lips twitching upwards. “You want to draw me?” he asks.

 

“No,” Will says, shaking his head lightly. He smiles. “I’ve already done that. I want you to _pose_ for me,” he explains, his smile sweet and flirty, and then Jim finally gives in too, smirking at Will.

 

“Right,” he says. “I’ll keep my clothes on in the first session, though, and then we’ll see.”

 

He does manage to make Will blush then, whether it was his intention or not, but the redhead doesn’t stop smiling and nods. “Deal,” he says.

 

 

 

Will starts sketching Jim again while they have coffee, then, though he focuses more on the surroundings at first, the big windows behind Jim, the light they reflect. He works in silence, sipping his latte, and Jim seems happy to stay quiet and watch him work. He does seem like a quiet type, Will thinks, and it’s a comfortable silence that they share.

 

A few minutes later, Will decides he’s done for now and sets his pencil down, looks up to meet Jim’s eyes as he takes another sip from his latte. “I’ll want another session to focus on your eyes soon,” he says quietly, licking his lips and tasting sweet coffee with milk on them, wondering if Jim would like how it tastes, what would _his_ lips taste like. Probably black coffee, Will thinks, maybe peppermint too. Jim holds his gaze and smiles again, soft and mysteriously, as though he wants to make Will think he knows _exactly_ what he’s thinking.

 

“I still know very little about you, you know,” says Will after a second, and Jim’s smile changes a bit, just the corners of his lips twitching upwards differently.

 

“You know more than you’re letting on,” he says. “I know you’re smart, fire boy; that’s why I like you.”

 

Will can’t help but feel _challenged_ by that.

 

“You _enjoy_ being mysterious,” he says, and it’s not a question. His lips twist into a light smirk, eyes staring into Jim’s, unintimidated. “I like it a lot,” he admits.

 

Jim looks away first this time, still smiling as he plays with his empty coffee mug. “You’re mysterious too, you know,” he says. “Whether it’s on purpose or not,” he adds, looking up again and giving Will a studying look, trying to make a conclusion and thinking that no, it’s probably _not_ on purpose.

 

Will licks his lips. “I have nothing to hide,” he says quietly, shrugging a shoulder.

 

“I don’t think you do,” Jim says, shaking his head in agreement. Will doesn’t feel accused by him, though, and his smile doesn’t fade, eyes don’t look away. Jim licks his lips, his own eyes going from Will’s down to his lips and then back. His voice drops an octave when he speaks again. “I really want to kiss you,” he breathes.

 

Will feels his heart pounding against his ribcage, cheeks flushing, but he’s still unable to look away from Jim. “I want to do that too,” he says, calm and collected, even though he’s screaming inside.

 

Jim leans in across the table a little, closer to Will. “I’m a fairly good kisser too,” he says, and Will finds himself leaning in to meet him as well. His heart is still beating wildly inside his chest and he licks his lips again, watching Jim from up close.

 

“Well,” he breathes, his voice barely above a whisper. “You know I’m not just going to _believe_ that.”

 

Jim leans in a tad closer and then they’re just a few inches apart. “I’m _hoping_ you don’t,” he whispers back and all it takes then is a tilt of his head, then Will’s right there, closing the distance between them and pressing their lips together, warm and flush against each other’s. It only takes half a second for Will’s lips to part and then there’s Jim’s tongue in his mouth and Will can taste coffee and peppermint on him and it’s kind of overwhelming.

 

It’s over way too soon, though, and Will can’t help but protest a bit as Jim pulls away. “Let’s get out of here,” he says, a soft laugh escaping his lips at Will’s pout. Jim brushes his thumb gently across Will’s lips and then slides his hand down, fingers curling around Will’s wrist.

 

They don’t make it too far, once outside, with Jim pushing Will against the nearest wall at the back of the café. The way he closes in on him makes Will very aware of Jim’s size, then, and he finds it delightfully odd that someone so small can have such a presence.

 

The thoughts fade quickly, though, because they’re kissing again. The angle is much better this time; Will tilts his head a little to the side and Jim pushes himself up a bit to meet his lips, and then Will’s hands come up to Jim’s hair, fingers threading through his soft, dark hair. It makes Jim hum, the sound coming low from his throat and sending a pleasant shiver down Will’s spine. They kiss and kiss and kiss, fingers playing with hair and touching skin gently, teeth biting and scraping, hands running down backs and feeling each other from the waist up. Will’s unaware of their surroundings, focusing only on Jim and the feel of his lips and his touch.

 

He’s not sure if it’s minutes or hours that pass before they pull away from each other; Jim’s lips are red, his face flushed and hair tousled, while Will’s lips are wet and tingling, his whole body buzzing from Jim.

 

“Well,” he says, voice coming out low and a bit hoarse from lack of use. “ _Fairly good_ is a bit of an understatement.”

 

Jim hums again, leaning in and pressing their lips together again briefly. “I’ll take that as a compliment,” he almost _purrs_. Will feels his heart on fire and hugs Jim close, tilts his head down and kisses his neck, earning him another purr. Jim doesn’t move away from him, but he pulls away a little, looking up at Will. “I think I better go, fire boy,” he says and Will can’t help but feel a little tug that feels way too much like disappointment for him to ignore.

 

Jim doesn’t stop smiling as they walk together, though, and he slides his hand down towards Will’s, lacing their fingers together a moment after they part, so the brief disappointment of lost contact gives way to a constant warmth on his heart.

 

They stop and kiss again before they take separate paths towards their own houses. It’s quicker and sweeter this time, Jim brushing his fingers through Will’s hair, his teeth squeezing Will’s lip gently before releasing him.

 

“Goodnight, fire boy,” he breathes, and presses their lips together one more time.

 

“Goodnight, Jim,” Will says and falls back against the wall, running a hand through his red hair and watching as Jim walks away, taking in the way his body moves, hips swaying just a little, hair messy. The warmth on his heart doesn’t dissipate even as he walks the rest of the way home on his own, unable to ride his bike for fear of running into a person or a wall or (even worse) a car.

 

He gets home and showers, has dinner with his parents and can’t even focus on their conversation. He then goes into his room and sits with his journal, scribbling down a few verses of poetry and staring dreamily out of his window at the (uncharacteristically) bright night.

 

Will’s head is light when he lays it on his pillow later that night and he can still feel his lips tingling from kissing Jim, his smell still right under Will’s nose. His phone buzzes gently on the nightstand with a text from Jim right before he goes to bed. It only says _goodnight, fire boy,_ but it makes Will’s lips stretch into a grin.

 

_Goodnight, Jim_ , he replies, wanting to find a nickname for him too but unable to think about it now.

 

His head is still buzzing pleasantly as he closes his eyes, and soon enough he falls into a quiet sleep full of sweet dreams.


End file.
